


Warm Iron

by Lokei



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-06-07
Updated: 2007-06-07
Packaged: 2017-10-18 21:55:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/193716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lokei/pseuds/Lokei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is hard to believe that wood as waterlogged as the decks of the Dutchman could act so thirsty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Warm Iron

**Author's Note:**

> Originally conceived for the aos_challenge “blood” prompt, but I seriously, _seriously_ fail at deadlines. And, you know, vampiric spirit ships. This somehow became an even creepier an idea after seeing AWE, which finally gave me the ending I couldn’t find otherwise.

Everyone aboard the _Flying Dutchman_ knows there is something unusual about the darkest of the newest recruits, picked up off ship splintered on the rocks that pincer out of the ocean like a dance of macabre crabs. The rest of the sluggards are the sort they know well—frightened, spineless, afraid to die and afraid that the vow they have taken will be worse than the fate they sought to avoid. Looking at them is looking at a mirror of themselves ten, twenty, fifty years ago, or longer.

He is different.

Neither dead nor dying, he has not taken the vow which makes you part of the ship, part of the sea, until your soul is all that separates you from the salt, the spray, and the slime. Whereas they have cold saltwater running through their veins, he is still defiantly alive. They can hear the unfettered rush of true blood under his skin, smell the warm iron as it beats and clamors its way through the rain and the darkness, as if the years of the hammer and forge-fire have seeped through to the heart of him to a place no water can douse.

They yearn for it, for his heat and his human face, and he watches them with wary eyes as they surround him, tentacles waving and jaws gaping wide. The discipline of the Dutchman keeps them at bay, but only barely. When you cannot bleed and you cannot die, the boatswain’s lash has little meaning.

It is only natural, therefore, that the drama on the quarterdeck holds the attention of all, as old Bootstrap, who has been moody and withdrawn ever since returning from his messenger’s errand to the _Black Pearl_ , is finally shocked out of his reverie when he comes face to face with the newcomer. And it is equally natural that there should be an almost universal indrawn breath when the cat’s out of the bag—they may no longer _need_ to breathe, but that doesn’t mean they’ve lost the habit.

Indeed, the fascination on their disfigured faces could easily be taken for the horror felt by a human crew at the sound of the whip cracking against that lithe, handsome back, unprotected by barnacles or a year’s growth of algae, unprotected by anything save his fragile, unmarked skin.

It is hard to believe that wood as waterlogged as the decks of the _Dutchman_ could act so thirsty. But as the warm red drops splash against the boards, the deck soaks them up like a sponge. From orlop to mainmast the ship shudders in unholy delight, and an appreciative sigh fills the sodden sails. Any man with a heart would not be blamed for recoiling—but that’s hardly a problem here.

The object of their fascination is too furious to notice however, and smarting from more than just the force of the blows. He moves fast to cover the lash marks, to cover as much distance as possible between himself and the man that put them there. Bootstrap watches him warily with pale, sea-washed eyes that echo the intensity of his own, and if any of the others had care to remember what it meant to them so long ago, they might recognize an altogether different blood-hunger there.

Will does not care to notice, the heat concentrating in his face and his voice, flung words sizzling in the damp around them like grease on a griddle. The crimson starts to seep through his son’s jacket and Bootstrap starts to say something, but stops himself, confining his remarks to a simple “Yes.” The color is a comfort, he thinks, a reminder that Will still lives, his core a blooded, tempered steel in contrast to Bootstrap’s storm-stripped, faded canvas. More than a comfort, it is a promise which Bootstrap makes to powers greater than those that hold him in this half-death: he will find any way to prevent fate from trapping Will here, a life in the edges of things which holds no promise but madness.

He puts a green and grimy hand to the bulwark beside him. “I will not let it happen,” he swears softly.

The wood shudders under his hand, as if the _Dutchman_ itself were laughing at an idle fool’s boast. The ship must have a living heart—and it knows which one it wants.


End file.
